By Threes and Sevens
by Hayes Peters
Summary: It began on the seventh day of the seventh month, just over three decades and three years ago. And it ended after seven weeks.
1. Prologue (1)

**Notes:  
** Pretty sure this idea has been done to death. That's not gonna stop me from providing my own spin on it, though.

Very short chapter this time. If it helps, the next one is over 3k.

 **Prologue (1)  
**

* * *

Even fairy tales have rules. Some are obvious - the morals, the lessons imparted - and some are less so, such as the rhythm of events, or characters.

Threes and sevens, in particular, seem to be critical. Three little pigs or three bears with three bowls and three beds, seven brides for seven brothers, seven dwarves, and so on. Everything that is crucial to the story comes by threes or by sevens.

And yet, it escapes her for decades. Over thirty years pass; time clouding her memories while hurt twists fact into fiction or possibly vice-versa, and perhaps that is why the pieces don't click into place until Emma Swan is flung from a portal to land in a heap on the floor while Regina suddenly struggles to breathe.

"Hi," Emma says; at length, in a tone that is somewhere between sheepish and uncertain and so familiar that it aches, and Regina stares at that _dress_ she wears and squeezes the glass in her hand until the crystal creaks.

It began on the seventh day of the seventh month, just over three decades and three years ago. And it ended after seven weeks.


	2. 1 (of 7): Capture

**1 (of 7): Capture  
**

* * *

People truly are ludicrously ungrateful. Here they are; safe and fed and watered unlike so many others, and _still_ they persist in 'accidentally' wandering onto her land, 'accidentally' slaughtering the beasts in her forests for the pleasure of their already well-fed families, and 'accidentally' congregating in far greater numbers than _her_ laws allow.

Some do worse, and so the dungeons below her castle usually have every cell occupied. Some of the prisoners only stay shortly - either awaiting execution or deportation - and others are there for years because a short, permanent punishment is a mercy that they don't deserve.

Her carefully constructed schedule brings her there at least once a day. Presence equals intimidation, and those who know no better need to _learn._ Some, therefore, become familiar shadows in the far corners of their cells. Others are there one day and gone a night or two later, but no one dares visibly notice when she passes; no one speaks to or even _looks at_ her, because one thing that they _do_ know is that attracting the attention of the Evil Queen is rarely a wise decision.

And then again, some people are simply fools; a fact reinforced to her as she strides along the chilly hall on a midsummer's day.

" _Look down, woman! What are you; daft?!"_

" _Shh! She's coming!"_

" _But th-"_

" _Let her, then!"_

Even whispers echo off stone, so picking up on the hissed conversation isn't difficult and pinpointing it only takes the slightest fraction of effort; leading her around a nameless corner and to a handful of cells whose occupants are curled into the far walls and looking firmly at anything _other_ than her, aside from a single person whose eyes meet her own the second she even glances in that direction.

A woman, which she expected from the whispers. A peasant, which she guessed from the idiocy; tall and slender but far too toned for the meticulously unlabored life of nobility, and dressed in boots and pants and a shirt made from material far coarser than the fine fabrics draping her own frame. Blonde, pale and standing upright, with her thumbs hooked into her own belt and those eyes still looking right at her.

Regina purses her lips, and sets one hand against her own waist. "You don't take direction particularly well, do you, dear?"

"No," is the answer. "Can't say I ever have."

"Indeed." She approaches the iron bars slowly; the _clack_ of her heels against the hard floors echoing down the hall, and crooks a finger until the woman approaches as well. "Your name?"

Her voice is low, but she still sees the motion of startled bodies and widened eyes at the edges of her vision, because the Evil Queen only ever knows your name for one of two reasons.

You are useful, or you are a fool. And fools, as the saying goes, are not suffered gladly.

"E-" The sharp _clang_ of a dented mug against a nearby cell door interrupts the answer - an attempt at a warning, presumably - and Regina doesn't look away, but _does_ flick her fingers to send the perpetrator smacking into a wall on a gust of magic. "-Louise."

"Eloise?"

"Yes." There _is_ wariness in those eyes, she determines, though the shifting of torchlight and shadow keeps her from pinpointing the color of them. "Eloise Cygne."

"I see," she murmurs, and scans her eyes across the prisoner because she _reeks_ of magic and yet is still _here._ "Tell me, Miss Cygne; why am I wasting funds from my treasury on keeping you fed and sheltered?" The puzzled look makes her sigh. "Why are you _here,_ dear?"

"Trespassing, Your Majesty."

"On?"

"I'm... not sure," is the reply to that, along with a little shrug. "I don't know the area."

Unlike the name she's been given, Regina estimates _that,_ at least, to be true. While the woman speaks the language, she does so with an accent; one that she herself can't place, and one that is little more than an extra rounding of the vowels and a softer weighing of the consonants.

So. She has on her hands a foreigner. One who makes the air around her all but _crackle_ with light magic but doesn't use it to escape capture, and who knows where she is without having the faintest clue which area she even trespassed on. One who knows _her,_ and yet doesn't seem to be intimidated in the slightest.

Curious.

Experimentally, she throws up a hand and curls her fingers into a fist; narrowing her eyes and watching intently as her prisoner gasps and straightens; arms pressing tightly to her sides and boots smacking together at the invisible bonds that circle her body and tighten.

"Now," she says, and cants her head. "Break free."

"I _can't_." The answer is ground out from between gritted teeth.

"Do you think me a fool?!" Regina snaps; lifting the woman from the floor by a few inches and bringing her closer until she's practically touching the bars. You have magic. I can practically _taste it."_

"That doesn't mean I know how to use it!"

"Oh, but I think it does." Her free hand shoots through a gap in the bars; grasping the woman's chin in a hard grip while those eyes widen and her own voice drops. "Did you truly think that your little scheme would be a first? To be captured as a simple peasant; to bide your time, to perhaps free every prisoner at nightfall and sneak off for my head under the cover of a riot?" The fist she has formed tightens further, and the woman groans. "It has been done, and failed every time."

"Not-" The wince comes when Regina digs her nails into the woman's chin. "- what I'm here for."

Irritatingly, she seems to be telling the truth. In spite of the bars, their faces are close enough for them to be breathing the same air, and Regina searches for the faintest flicker of those long lashes, the tiniest movement of those eyes that indicates dishonesty, and finds nothing. All she sees is the flush that darkens the woman's cheeks, the minuscule dilation of her pupils and the way her lips part faintly around strained breathing.

The signs add up, and Regina quirks an eyebrow.

Interesting. She retracts and relaxes her hands, and rolls her eyes when the prisoner can't even manage to catch herself on her own feet; instead landing in a jumble of arms and legs on the floor as Regina turns her back.

"You know where to place her," she tells a guard, and makes her way towards the exit to the increasingly faint sounds of grating metal and muffled struggling.

-• •-

Humanity is grossly overpopulated by idiots, and so her schedule is thrown completely to the winds the next day. It takes her days to undo the damage caused by a single moron who _somehow_ made it onto her staff, and both he and the man who hired him are discharged and placed in gibbets for as long as it takes her to rectify their mistakes.

It also means that she misses her daily appearance in the dungeons for the first time in years, and she is thoroughly unimpressed to enter the lone, occupied cell among those constructed specifically for magic users, because the woman within – quite frankly – is a mess.

"Really, dear," she sighs, and takes in the matted hair, crumpled clothing and grimy skin with a distasteful wrinkle of her nose. "You could at least spend a moment on personal hygiene."

The woman – _Eloise_ , was it? - rolls her eyes. "Little hard to clean yourself without water," she drawls, and gestures to the space; empty aside from a cot, enclosed by solid stone on all sides and lit only by way of a single, melting candle and the narrow peep hole in the iron door. "I did what I could with what I could spare from my rations."

"So you still claim to have no magic?"

"I never claimed to have no magic," is the answer, around a long sigh. "I told you that I _have_ magic, but that I don't know how to _use it."_

Regina sniffs. "Preposterous," she decides. "Any child born with magic are schooled in its use from the time they're old enough to speak. Even the most incompetent of teachers would have taught you a spell with which to clean yourself, and at least the barest necessities for personal defense."

"Yeah?" Eloise leans back against a wall with a glower, and crosses her arms. "Well, I'm weird."

This, Regina thinks, is getting very old, very fast. She has little time indeed for adult women who insist on acting like children, and while forcing the truth from this particular irritant is clearly best done by making her _need_ to use her magic, it's clear that personal hygiene is not enough of a concern for this woman to garner a result.

Fine then. She flicks her fingers outwards, and quirks an eyebrow when her prisoner drops to the floor with a pained cry and clutches her now bleeding shoulder.

"Jesus _fuck_ , woman, _what is your problem?!"_

"Dishonesty and idiocy," she answers succinctly. "Kindly stop wailing like a child and heal yourself. If you didn't wish to be injured, you should have countered."

"Are you fu-" Eloise cuts herself off with a groan and pulls herself upright with her good arm; her eyes snapping with anger as she stalks across the room and only comes to a halt when she is practically pushing Regina backwards. "I. Don't. Know. _How,"_ she snarls. "I was born with magic; _fine_. But it was- I don't know, _locked_ the day I was born and only came back very recently."

Hm. Well, she supposes that _would_ explain the clearly thin control the woman has on her power even now; her anger making the air around her all but vibrate with barely restrained energy and actual _sparks_ showing in her eyes.

It's oddly intoxicating in spite of it being light magic, and there is no denying that Eloise is a very attractive example of humanity. She is, however, less attractive in her current state, so Regina places a finger in the center of her chest and pushes until she takes a step backwards.

"Beware the liberties you take, dear," she warns softly. "I'd so hate to have you executed."

"I bet," is the sour reply; Eloise sending her another glower before striding back across the cell to the candle and pulling the fabric of her shirt from her bleeding wound with a low hiss.

There is blood spreading on the back of her shoulder, too, and Regina wonders if perhaps her irritation led her to send an attack that was a fraction more powerful than she intended. Granted, the foolish woman could have simply told her _why_ she doesn't know magic, but prisoners are impractical enough when they're healthy. Sick or injured ones – when they aren't already ones to be executed, at least – are leeches on the time needed from guards and physicians in order to keep disease from spreading, and she supposes that there _is_ a small chance that Eloise – being a rare example of a somewhat _reasonable_ user of magic - could turn out to be useful.

Gangrene and other infections run very much counter to finding that out, so in the interest of not wasting a potential resource, Regina sighs, flexes her fingers and crosses the room.

"Sit," she tells her. "If you cannot heal yourself, I suppose that I'll have to do it for you."

"Yeah, yeah; you're a real humanitarian." The answer is a low grumble, but the infuriating woman at least has enough sense to obey; even if she does walk like a petulant child, and drops on a seat on the cot in much the same way.

Regina ignores the dig, and instead focuses on the slight intake of breath that trickles past her hearing the second her fingers touch the woman's skin. Her lips quirk in spite of the nauseating amount of light magic she can feel practically emanating from the toned frame like a scent, and when she pulls the stained shirt back enough to reveal the injured shoulder about down to the collar bone, she studies the flush and wonders how strong it is, that it's visible even in this light.

Healing the wound is a simple enough task, though she does frown at the semi-circular scarring she feels under her fingers when the job is done.

"'S an old one," comes the mumble; Eloise apparently able to follow her thoughts, as well as being _so_ unused to magic that simply being affected by that of another is enough to tire her. "Some bastard got lucky with a stray bu-" A pause, and a yawn so wide that she only barely manages to cover it with one hand. "- bolt. From a crossbow."

That, apparently, used up what energy she had left, and Regina has to catch her prisoner by the shoulders as Eloise simply _passes out_ and almost teeters forward.

 _Really_. She blows out a breath through her nose and gives an irritated twist of her mouth as she manages to nudge the woman into falling _onto_ the cot rather than _out of_ it. At the very least, she could have enough consideration to not almost give herself a broken nose, since she isn't even able to perform a simple healing spell.

It's all quite curious. Regina can honestly say that this woman ranks far up on the list of natural magic users that she has met in terms of sheer power; that much is easy to tell from the waves of energy that emanates from her like an aura, though she allows that it could also be a product of having had what looks – from the prisoner's physical appearance – to be roughly thirty years worth of stored up magic unleashed upon her system all at once. If, indeed, she is telling the truth about that.

In that, there is another question. _Why_ restrict someone's magic? To bind the powers of a mighty sorcerer who proves himself dangerous, yes, would seem to those opposing him a logical step; she, in fact, has been on the receiving end of a few unsuccessful attempts at that herself. But that of a child; even an infant? The only purpose for that would be to _hide_ the child for whatever reason, and while there are presumably parents who would do so out of blind (and largely unfounded) panic at this stage of her reign, Regina herself was a young girl three decades back, and remembers no power large or frightening enough to cause a need for shielding those born with magic.

Very odd.

She seals the door behind her and leaves the unconscious woman to her dreams; striding down the hall and turning the puzzle over in her head as she goes.

-• •-

When Regina next returns to the cell, her prisoner is looking a fair amount tidier than she last was. Even if she _is_ merely doing a convincing job of lying about her magic abilities, it seems that she will at least wash if provided with soap and water.

"Thanks for the port-a-bath," Eloise says by way of greeting, but doesn't look up from her seat on the floor, or from the strips of what is apparently the now missing half of her shirt sleeve; slowly being woven together into some sort of braid.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"Maintaining my sanity the best I can." Those eyes lift to hers, now, and the brow above the left one quirks. "Nice rustic accommodations and all, but if you don't mind me saying so, the entertainment amenities leave something to be desired."

Her gaze then drops back to the braiding, and Regina simply studies her for a moment while her mind picks harder at this absolute _walking contradiction_ in front of her.

A powerful sorceress with no apparent clue of how to make even the most basic use of the magic flowing in her blood. A peasant in build and garb and movement; in speech, too, if not in vocabulary. A prisoner of the Evil Queen who shows very little – if any – fear when placed directly in front of her, and a woman who is clearly attracted – and attract _ive_ – but who gives glowers and sarcastic wit rather than coy glances and teasing smiles.

Very curious. Fascinating, even.

"I'm sure you'll forgive me for not granting a _prisoner_ free access to my castle, dear."

The braid drops into Eloise's lap when her hands do, and this time she lifts her entire head, rather than just her eyes. "I'm not here for you," she says simply; voice low. "Or anyone else."

Again, Regina watches her closely, and again, she sees not a single sign of dishonesty; not so much as flickering eyelid or a twitching finger.

"Then why _are_ you here?"

"I told you; I was caught trespassing," is the answer; punctuated by the lazy shrug of a single shoulder. "But I'll admit that this was pretty much where I wanted to end up, anyway."

"Well, now." Her lips quirk sardonically. "I'd have had the cells decorated, had I anticipated your fascination with my dungeons."

That earns her a snort. "Oh, yeah." Eloise gives a little roll of her eyes. "Damp stone and moldy, straw mattresses are all the rage where I come from; let me tell you." She scoots a little further down in her seat; her knees lifting and her feet placing themselves flat on the floor. "So I'll take back what I aid before: I _am_ here for you, but to harm you." A pause, and a slight duck of her head followed by a low grunt of irritation. "I need your help."

Regina scoffs. That – someone wanting to exploit her power through a favor – is something she knows well, and to hear a notion so tritely common from this otherwise fascinating woman is strangely disappointing. "What _ever_ for?"

Eloise's lips twitch into the faintest of smiles, and she folds her hands on top of her raised knees. "To get home."


End file.
